My Strength Is Your Weakness
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Investigating a suspicious psychic takes an unexpected toll on Sam.


_First appeared in _Chinook 7 _(2007), from Black Fly Press_

**My Strength Is Your Weakness**  
K Hanna Korossy

Dean Winchester set his stance and sized up his opponent. Bigger than he, devious, but soft in the middle. No competition.

With a calculated fake to the right, he dove forward instead.

His brother didn't fall for the feint, sidestepping his charge. Sam's arm swung out to ram across Dean's back, turning his lunge into a stumble, but Dean instantly regained his feet and switched tactics. He came up under Sam's arm, grabbing it, swinging it around him in a hold from behind.

Sam turned with him, slipping free and ramming Dean against the wall.

Dean grunted with the impact, shoulder still twinging with old pain. But even as Sam's eyes flickered at the realization, Dean smiled. "Not bad, little brother. You been practicing?" His elbow met Sam's ribs, forcing him away, and he swept Sam into a neat flip. If this had been a real fight with him armed, Sam would've been dead now.

Sam, bangs damp with perspiration, jumped back up and locked eyes with him. "Hookman, possessed furniture, cannibalistic hicks—take your pick, Dean." The side of his arm caught Dean's throat, a moment's distraction while he ducked away, putting space between them again.

"Yeah…and I seem to recall you lost most of those fights." Fighting didn't end at the physical. Dean watched as his brother's eyes darkened, then took advantage of his anger and kicked out, intending to sweep Sam's legs from under him.

But those deceptively coltish legs bent away from him, missing his blow, and crossed the space between them with one step. The momentum carried over into a head-butt that sent Dean reeling back a step. "Go up against any airplanes or killer trucks recently?" Sam growled in return.

Dean grinned at him, seeing the answering glint of humor in Sam—it was all just sparring, after all—and twisted to one side to get that soft midriff with his good shoulder. Sam's middle wasn't as yielding as it had been six months ago, though—and even then, fresh out of Stanford, he hadn't been seriously out of shape—and Sam didn't budge, wrapping one long arm around Dean's neck and flipping him around instead, Dean's back to his chest.

"Wanna dance?" Dean invited, then slammed them both back against the nearest wall. Sam grunted but didn't let go.

But he did hesitate, pausing as if he were listening to something. His arm loosened its grasp around Dean's throat.

Dean took advantage of the unexpected drop in defenses, breaking free and sweeping his leg out again. This time it caught Sam behind the knee and buckled it, sending him crashing to the ground.

Dean leaned over him, breathing more heavily than he'd expected to be, and grinned again. "What happened to you?" He reached out a hand.

Sam shook his head with chagrin but accepted the offer and let himself be pulled up. And he wasn't as sweaty and out-of-breath as Dean had expected, either. For the first time in their lives, they were almost equally matched. "I don't know, I thought I heard something."

Dean snorted. "Lame." But he listened for a moment, hearing nothing but their quieting expirations. "You should've gone with, 'I had a cramp,' or 'I was distracted by how buff you were' or something."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Dude, you think I check you out?"

Um. Dean glared at him. "Winner gets first shower." He swatted the sweaty head and disappeared into the bathroom.

He could have predicted the scene he emerged to, towel slung around his hips. Sam, still in his sweats, sat at the table with the laptop, eyes eerily illuminated by the screen. He didn't even glance up at Dean, apparently engrossed in what he was reading.

"So, any leads?" Dean asked, pulling out a clean pair of shorts, then digging for a shirt that didn't smell. They really had to do laundry soon.

Sam's head shook. "Nothing on the 'psychic.' It's like the guy appeared out of nowhere and set up shop here. But I've got plenty on the victims."

"We don't know they're victims yet, Sam," Dean cautioned, finally finding a shirt that didn't make him grimace. Unfortunately, it was Sam's. Dean shrugged and pulled it on before turning to face his brother.

"No, but all three find out from the psychic they're going to die, and then they do within days, all from mysterious causes?" Sam's head tilted. Dean saw him notice the shirt, mouth quirking, but he didn't comment on it. "Don't tell me that doesn't sound suspicious to you."

"Fine, I won't. But that also doesn't mean this guy's killing them, either. For all we know, he's the real deal."

"Right. Just instead of getting clients who're going to meet Mr. Right or win the lottery, his happen to be dying."

Dean pulled the shorts on, then dropped the towel. "It's not like we'd hear about the others. Who's going to complain because a psychic told them they were about to meet tall, dark, and gorgeous."

Sam's mouth curled. "What happened to 'handsome.'"

"Hey, you've got your type, I've got mine."

Sam halfheartedly threw a balled-up piece of paper at him. "Yeah, maybe," he said, returning to the business at hand. He chewed on his lip. "I don't know, something just sounds wrong about this to me."

Dean gave him a sidelong glance as he shoved dirty clothes back into his duffel. "'Sounds' or 'feels.'"

Sam made a soft noise. "Dean, I haven't had any 'feelings' or visions since Max, okay? It's just…I don't know, instinct or something."

Dean eyed him a minute before returning to his bag. "And that's why we're here, to check it out. See if your instincts have gotten as soft as your training."

Sam made a face at him. "Dream on, Dean."

"I told you, Sammy, you're not my type."

Sam threw another paper ball at him.

Dean didn't even bother dodging it. "Your aim needs work, too. And go take a shower. You're smelling up the room."

He smiled as the next ball bounced off the exact center of his forehead.

00000

Dean woke to Sam because he always woke to Sam.

Even half-asleep, his brain processed the soft whimper. _Nightmare. _There hadn't been as many lately, not since Kansas and Sam coming clean with Dean about his dreams and a long talk or two about what was Sam's fault—like keeping secrets from his big brother—and what wasn't—Jess. But the nightmares still came occasionally, and half the time Sam woke himself, lay still for a while as his breath slowly steadied, then fell back to sleep.

It was the other times Dean listened for, when Sam couldn't break from the fire in his mind and whimpers became screams. When Sam needed backup for the dangers in his head.

It took Dean a moment to realize this time something was different, though. He knew every sound his brother could make, from joy to grief to rage and the whole spectrum in between. This wasn't Sam's usual distress at seeing the woman he loved eviscerated and burned in front of him. This was physical pain.

Dean rolled off his bed and was next to Sam's in one smooth motion. "Sammy," he said urgently, one hand on Sam's shoulder, insistently, gently shaking. "Wake up."

Sam snapped awake, an instinct not dulled by school, his pupils huge in the moonlight. He stared at Dean for a second, then his forehead creased and his eyes squeezed shut. "Ow. God." And with that announcement—plea?—he turned on his side and drew his legs up, curling beside Dean, and rubbed at his temples with both hands.

Dean studied him, concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Head hurts."

Dean made a face. "Yeah, I kind of figured that one out, genius. Were you…dreaming?"

One eye opened to blearily fix on him. "Not like that."

Whether Sam meant Jess's death or his Johnny Smith gig, Dean couldn't help but feel relief. The Michigan/Miller family thing still freaked him out whenever he thought about it, which was a lot more often than Sam realized. Dean's hand had slid to Sam's back as his brother turned, and he patted it lightly. "Hold on a minute." He stood and moved with sure footing in the dim light to their bags, finding the first aid kit and flipping through it. Another side-trip into the bathroom for a glass of water, and he was back at Sam's bedside, nudging the nearest tightly gripping hand. "Sam. Take these."

Sam groped blindly for the pills and dry-swallowed them, shaking his head minutely at the water.

Dean set the glass on the nightstand. His hand returned to Sam's back. He hated feeling helpless, but at least this was a little more in his league than grieving a dead girlfriend or having dreams about the future.

"Take it easy," he said softly. "The pills'll kick in in a few minutes."

Sam's head jerked up and down once.

Dean reached to pull the blankets up over Sam again. He frowned when his hand brushed the back of his brother's neck and felt the tautness there; the kid was going to give himself a tension headache if nothing else. Dean started kneading the knotted muscle, as matter-of-fact about it as when they worked out charley horses or cramps during practices. There was nothing weak or embarrassing about dealing with the toll their job took, even if that toll was more emotional than physical sometimes in Sam. It was just the way he was, and Dean had never wished for anything different.

Sam's body relaxed by degrees, his fingertips no longer white as they dug into his head. Gradually, they let go their grip altogether, until he lay limp and heavy-eyed on the pillow, head rolling slightly with Dean's massage.

"So," Dean finally said quietly. "Just a headache, or something else?"

"Dunno." The words sounded thick. Sam was already half-asleep again. "Felt like something was being shoved into my brain."

Dean winced at the description. Nice. "But it's gone?" he pressed.

Sam nodded loosely. "Thanks," he murmured, and Dean had a sudden déjà vu to holding his shaking brother after one of the worst of his nightmares until Sam was sagging with sleep again, and the exhaled, _Thanks, Jess_, Dean had gotten as he settled Sam back on the bed again. Dean couldn't help but wonder who Sam was thanking now.

But all that mattered was that he was okay, and Dean ruffled his hair before withdrawing. "Shut up and go back to sleep," he said quietly. Unnecessarily, because Sam was almost there. Dean waited for his eyes to shut and stay that way, then he pushed himself to his feet and back to his own bed. Massage therapist and middle-of-the-night hand-holder: just two more services offered by big brothers. He should keep a list for Sam next time his little brother got prissy about Dean bossing him around. Rockford and Burkittsville weren't that far behind them yet, no matter how much they were both determined to move on.

Still, guilt no longer flashed through Sam's eyes when they sparred and Dean's touch could still make the nightmares go away just like it had twenty years before. All things considered, they were doing okay.

All things considered.

00000

"Well," Dean said frustratedly as he closed the gate behind them. "This is getting us nowhere fast."

"What did you expect?" Sam asked. "Their daughter just died, Dean. People aren't exactly at their most observant then."

"They didn't give us _anything_, Sam—natural-sounding death, no weird circumstances, no warning besides the psychic thing." One of the families had mentioned it in the article Sam had found, and it hadn't taken much checking to find the common link. "Same with the guy before, uh, Mike-whatever."

"They didn't see it coming," Sam quietly countered. "Whatever that psychic told them, whatever they thought, they weren't expecting this."

Dean's eyes flicked over to him, hearing just a touch of experience in that statement. "Nobody expects death, Sam. And just because someone's psychic doesn't make them all-knowing."

Sam cast him a sidelong glance: _message received_. Dean immediately turned his gaze elsewhere: _no idea what you're talking about_. He heard Sam's affectionate huff, though, and smiled to himself.

"So," he juggled the Impala's keys a moment before sliding them into the lock. "Last vic's family?"

Sam had stopped to lean against the car, something he often did, like he was trying to take back the extra inches he had on everyone normal. He drummed his fingers against the polished top. "Yeah, I guess."

Dean paused, eyebrow rising. "You guess? You wanna go see the psychic instead, or check out the ME's office?"

"No, I just…" Sam's fingers thrummed a little harder. "I don't know, something doesn't feel right about this."

"Yeah, you said that already," Dean said dryly. "And if you actually gave me a little more than just feelings to go on, maybe we could even do something with it. All this touchy-feely crud—you're starting to sound like a girl, Sam."

Sam grimaced, rubbing his temple. "Right. So you finding the Benders in the middle of nowhere was pure chance, nothing to do with your gut feelings."

"No, that was pure detective work," Dean corrected immediately. "Feelings didn't matter." Not the psychic kind, anyway. Just the knots his stomach tied itself into at the thought of Sam disappearing, Sam in that cage, the gunshots out in the barn…

"Uh-huh." Sam gave him a knowing smile and moved back to open the car.

Dean glowered at the empty air before sliding inside to join him.

Sam was back to massaging his head. Dean watched him covertly as he turned the motor over. The corners of his kid brother's eyes were crinkled and the haggard expression Dean had taken for the wear-and-tear of talking to victims' families was starting to appear in a new light.

"Head hurting again?" he ventured a guess.

Sam's nose wrinkled. "It's all right."

"There's some Advil in the kit."

Sam didn't argue, reaching under the seat for the first aid box.

Dean kept watching as he retrieved a bottle of water for Sam. Sometimes he wondered how the kid had made it through three years of college. Jess had probably gotten good at reading him, too, and it wasn't the first time Dean had wondered about his brother's almost-fiancée. If she was anywhere near the kind of girl he wished for Sam, she'd probably done her share of coaxing him to eat, sleep, and take care of himself, because God knew Sam needed a lot of looking after.

The water bottle was accepted with a quiet "Thanks," and Sam washed the pills down with a faint grimace.

Dean looked at him a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the road. "This the same headache from last night?" he asked casually as he pulled out into traffic.

"It didn't hurt this morning but, yeah, feels the same." Sam graduated to a heel of the hand against his forehead. "It's like…pressure or something, like I'm under water."

Dean frowned, made a decision, and a turn. "Listen, I'm gonna drop you off at the room so you can take a nap. I can do this last interview by myself, then I'll come back for you and we can grab some lunch before we hit the psychic, okay?"

As expected, the protest overlapped his last few words. "Dean, I can—"

"I know," Dean said flatly. "I know that, Sam—this isn't about what you can't do. It's about there being no reason for you to _have_ to go do this. I'm just gonna talk to these people, nothing dangerous, but I need you to be a hundred percent when we go face the Creepy Psychic Wonder later, okay?"

Sam pulled a face. "So this has nothing to do with you protecting me?" he asked wryly.

Dean's jaw shifted and he pulled off the road. "Sam…" He waited until Sam looked over at him, then met his gaze steadily. He was a little embarrassed, yeah, but if Sam was taking this wrong, Dean had to lay it out for him. "We're equal partners in this now. And getting snatched by the Benders like that was a fluke, all right, I know that. I'm a lot more worried about these weird headaches of yours than about you playing trap-and-seek on me again. I just need you to be ready for whatever comes up." He debated for a moment, then casually reached across the top of the seat and squeezed Sam's shoulder.

That seemed to drain some of the tension from Sam's face. Pain made his eyes more transparent than usual, and the affection that brightened in them made Dean shift uncomfortably in his seat even as it warmed him. No, he had no doubts about Sam's abilities to handle himself, or to watch Dean's back. If he'd had, they'd vanished when Sam had turned around and rescued _him_. But that didn't mean he wouldn't worry. That was his job, after all.

Sam nodded. "All right. But you're not going to go see the psychic by yourself."

"Dude, without my secret weapon?" Dean canted an eyebrow at him.

Sam snorted softly and turned to the window. He didn't say another word until they got back to the motel, although Dean noticed the tight grip on the notebook and door handle.

They sat there, parked in front of the door, for a long minute, Sam staring blankly out the glass, Dean facing forward but staring sideways at him. "Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah."

"If I…what if I…"

Dean waited a few beats. "Is there a verb in there somewhere?"

Sam shook his head. "Never mind." He turned to look at Dean. "Be back in two hours."

"Do we have to go over this again, Sammy? Me, big brother, you—"

"What happened to equal partners?" Sam asked, but he was trying not to smile.

"Well, equal plus four years," Dean amended.

"Just be back in two hours, man. Please."

Dean considered his brother a moment. "Okay."

Sam nodded and climbed out.

"Pleasant dreams."

Sam didn't turn, just slammed the door and flipped him a rude gesture.

Dean laughed as he drove away.

But he'd only been partly kidding.

00000

As it turned out, it hadn't made much of a difference.

Far from being back to a hundred percent, the sleep Sam swore he'd gotten while Dean was fruitlessly meeting-and-greeting just left him seemingly more tired and hurting. Dean took one look at him hunched over on the edge of his bed and immediately declared they were done for the day.

"No," Sam said, rising without his usual grace. "We're not. I'm okay, Dean—it's just a headache."

Dean hadn't budged from where he stood next to the door, eyes narrowed critically. "Yeah, like those little headaches you got from your visions—"

"It's _not _a vision!"

"—or from the Benders knocking you out." Dean stripped his jacket and tossed it toward his bed, ignoring the ache of the little souvenir the Benders had left _him _with. He grabbed Sam's arm as his brother passed him. "Sam, I'm a lot of things but I'm not stupid, all right? My brother looks like one an extra from a George Romero movie_,_ it's a little hard for me to believe everything's 'okay.'"

Anger glimmered briefly in Sam's eyes, but his pride had been whittled down a lot by nearly losing Dean a few times those last months, once by his own hand, and the fire died just as quickly. Sam sank back down onto the bed, and Dean sat across from him on his own bed, giving his brother his undivided attention.

"It's just a headache, Dean," Sam said quietly, palms flat against his forehead. "I'd tell you if it was more, I promise."

"Sam, I trust you, okay? I do. But you look like crap, man, and you _have_ gotten knocked around a lot lately. Maybe this is just as simple as we need a break, take a few days off to sleep and watch some soaps and take it easy."

"What about the psychic?" Sam asked in a low voice.

"Guy's not going anywhere," Dean dismissed it. "We can check him out later. We don't even know if he's involved."

"He is."

Dean still had his doubts, but he knew better than to ignore Sam's intuitions_. _"So we'll go have our fortunes told tomorrow. You need to get some rest, Sam," he said with the earnestness that sometimes was the only thing that worked with his brother.

Sam stared at him a moment before his shoulders sagged. "I'm not ten anymore, man."

"No, when you were ten, you actually listened to me."

"That's because you could beat me up and sit on me if I didn't."

"Oh, I could still do that," Dean said pleasantly.

Sam was trying to hang on to his scowl and failing miserably. "Do I get to eat first, or are you going to send me to bed without dinner?"

Dean gave him a tilted grin. "You whined a lot when you were ten, too."

Sam was about to say something but winced instead. He brought up the heel of his hand to rub his forehead.

"Sam…" Dean said softly, leaning closer.

"Feels like something's trying to crawl inside my head," Sam gritted, bending over where he sat.

Dean frowned at him, took him by the arm to make sure he didn't fall out of his chair. "Maybe we should go see a doctor."

Sam seemed to steady at his touch. He scrubbed his skin a moment more, then sniffed and nodded as his hand fell away. "I'm all right." Bloodshot eyes flicked up to Dean.

Dean eyed him back warily. "Uh-huh," he drawled.

"Look, I think I'm gonna skip dinner and just turn in, all right?"

Not really, but he couldn't think of a better plan. Dean pushed himself up. "Yeah, okay."

Sam gave him a faint grin. "You can read me a bedtime story if it makes you feel better."

"Dude, you're not ten," Dean said gruffly as he pushed away.

He kept an eye on his brother as Sam changed and crawled into bed, and for a long time afterward. Sam slept like one drugged, not even nightmares plaguing him that night apparently, his face smoothed of pain.

_What's going on in that screwed-up head of yours? _Dean wondered in the silence. He hadn't missed Sam's phrasings: _shoved in, pressure, crawling in_, like some sort of outside force was exerting itself on him. But was it something with malicious intent? Or maybe some sort of…psychic static from the guy they were checking into? Or just something else Sam's own brain had cooked up to punish him, because all these new developments hadn't freaked them both out enough already?

More importantly, was it something Dean could fight and protect his brother from?

Well, he sighed, not that day. Sam was safe and resting at the moment, and that was what mattered. The rest they'd figure out tomorrow.

But Dean couldn't shake his unease as he turned on the TV and tried to tune the what-ifs out.

00000

_Ring._

The cell phone was loud in the dark and silent motel room. Dean groaned into his pillow but otherwise didn't budge. "Sam, get that."

_Ring. _

No sound of movement in the room. Dean made a face and turned his head toward the other bed, eyes still closed. "Sam!"

_Ring. _

Grumbling in earnest now, Dean reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand beside him. His eyes cracked open just enough to read the screen and see who was calling in the middle of the night.

_St. Paul's Medical Center, _the backlit screen read.

Dean's eyes snapped open all the way, suddenly wide awake. He whipped around to look at the other bed as he pushed himself up and flipped the cell open.

Sam's bed was empty, the covers tossed back. The bathroom was also dark and quiet.

Not good. So very not good.

Dean was already reaching for his discarded jeans as he barked into the phone without preamble, "My brother, Sam, is he okay?"

_"Mr. Young, we need you to—"_

The voice was female and young, and Dean couldn't care less. "Is Sam okay?" he repeated sharply, his voice steel, his insides jello.

A hesitation. Hesitations were always bad. _"Your brother was found wandering alongside a road, catatonic. He's being held for examination and observation, and we need—"_

Dean started cursing in his head, but out loud he just said, "Give me directions."

A minute later, he was racing out to the car.

He should have heard Sam leaving, Dean stewed as he drove—flew. He'd been fast asleep when Dean had turned in for the night; they'd both been exhausted, Sam in pain. But that was all the more reason Dean should've been on his guard. Sam had been right, Dean smacked the steering wheel in sudden frustration. Sam had all but told him something was trying to get to him, and Dean had brushed it off, in denial that anything could hurt Sam with him there. In denial that there was an aspect to his brother now that was beyond him. Dean should've known better, been paying attention, figured out a way to protect Sam even if he still didn't know from what. Catatonic—God. The fear worked its way from his gut all the way into his throat.

The medical center wasn't far, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if the road he was driving on was the one they'd found Sam on, stumbling along unknowingly. Just the image was enough to give his heart a panicked squeeze. This could so easily be him visiting a broken and bloodied Sam who'd been hit by a car, or a dead Sam in the morgue. He should have been there. No, he should've stopped Sam before his brother even got there.

Dean squealed the car into a ninety degree arc more or less in a parking space, and jumped out.

The hospital was small and it was dead of night. There was no line at the front desk, just a bored clerk who rattled off a room number for Sam Young. Dean didn't wait to thank him, bolting.

Room 313. Psych ward.

He took the stairs because he might have exploded in the elevator, and momentarily got lost in the winding pastel hallways when he emerged. But there was always a sense of his brother when Sam was close, something Dean had never been able to put his finger on and never tried. And Sam, even absent _catatonic_ Sam, was there. Dean let instinct take over, capable of tearing apart anything that came between them now and not caring, and found his brother.

Doctors only came out to tell you the fate of your loved ones after surgeries and major traumas. Sam didn't have a mark on him, and was tucked into a too-bright room in the corner of one hallway, ignored for the moment, no staff around to ward Dean off or explain anything. It didn't take long for him to see why.

His brother lay motionless, eyes open and staring at the light above, slowly blinking every so often. His ankles and wrists were bound with soft restraints, but he wasn't fighting them, didn't even seem to be aware of them. Dean's stomach clenched a little harder at the sight. He'd seen Sam with no one home before, but there was always something else to blame: injury, possession, exhaustion. This…

_Feels like something's trying to crawl inside my head._

Dean took a breath, crossed those last feet to the bed. It was lowered, so he had to lean over to get close. "Sammy," he breathed. "God, what happened to you this time?"

Nothing, not in Sam's face or eyes or body, not in the limited Spidey sense Dean himself had where his brother was concerned. Sam was a photo negative of the soul-without-body spirits they dealt with. His body was vacant, spirit—

_Gone? You can't just lose your soul. Buried somewhere deep inside? You could give me some sign then, couldn't you?_

Dean grit his teeth. "You better be in there somewhere," he muttered, crushing Sam's wrist for a moment. Then he turned away and took out a few supplies he'd brought with him.

The EMF meter blipped faintly. Not a full possession, but something…unless it was just bleed from hospital equipment Dean was picking up. He should've checked Sam the first time those shadowed hazel eyes had turned to him. _Head hurts. _Then he'd have basis of comparison, but no. _It's gonna be okay, Sam._

Yeah, because this was so okay.

Dean screwed open the plastic bottle next, and splashed two of his fingers with its contents. Hesitantly, he reached down and rubbed the back of Sam's hand with the holy water.

No reaction. Not possession then. More like absence. Loss.

Dean's throat constricted. "Come on, man, give me something here. I promise I'll even listen to your freaky theories."

Those empty eyes were starting to get to him. Dean slid his palm down over them, gently closing the lids.

They reopened as his hand passed over. And then, so fast Dean wasn't sure he didn't imagine it, there was a flicker of movement in the depths.

"Sam?" he leaned closer. "Tell me that was you."

Nothing.

"C'mon, Sam," he whispered, "Talk to me, send me a telepathic message, levitate, _something_." Dean palmed the eyes shut again, staring intently as they reopened, then patted Sam's cheek, stroked the long bangs out of his eyes. There wasn't even a tremor of reaction.

Dean let out a slow sigh. "Okay, you hang in there a little longer. I'm gonna go find your doctor."

Easier said than done. The psych staff wasn't there overnight; Sam had been admitted by the ER doctor, who had limited knowledge about psychological trauma but had run all the usual tests, then sent Sam with his empty stare upstairs. Sam would be evaluated in the morning, the nurse told Dean, then taken to the observation ward for seventy-two hours. Then they'd make decisions for longer care. In the meantime, he would stay where he was, restrained and untreated for the night unless he grew violent.

Dean was starting to feel a little violent himself.

"So you're just going to keep him tied up here for the next few days?" he repeated disbelievingly, just so they were clear.

"Not tied up," the nurse repeated with an edge. She wasn't the one who'd called, older and voice deeper, not that Dean would have cared if she'd been a Miss America runner-up. "Sam's being restrained for his own good, to make sure he doesn't hurt himself or take off any of his monitors."

Hurt himself. He'd left a room full of weapons to go take a walk. Dean's jaw shifted.

"Sir—"

"No." He jerked away. "I've got it. Thanks." And he did. For the first time in days, he knew exactly what to do.

"Sir," she called after him, not knowing when to quit. "Visiting hours are really over…"

"I won't be much longer," Dean said flatly. Neither of them would.

He'd broken Sam out of a psych ward once, when a poltergeist that had sliced Sam's wrist open had the professionals thinking he was suicidal. Sam had been awake and himself then, though. A slight alteration to that plan was needed, but Dean did have a plan. If a little late…

Finding a wheelchair was easy enough. So was finding a room with another catatonic patient. Apparently the psych ward had enough to spare; they didn't need Sam for their collection. Not when there was something in him still reacting to Dean, trapped inside his trapped body. He'd rescued Sam before, and he was just going to do it again.

And then apologize for not having kept this from happening in the first place.

Dean returned to his brother's room, squeezing Sam's wrist with a quiet, "I'm gonna get you out of here in a minute." Then he went to work.

He'd brought a change of clothes for his brother in hopes Sam would need it, but a dressed patient in a wheelchair would probably elicit more notice than a gowned one. Dean switched tactics instead, working out the logistics as he undid the restraints on his brother's arms and legs. Padded cuffs, handcuffs, rope, rough twine: the opponents they came up against weren't all that different. Modern medicine would never know how to deal with the things they did, and would kill them trying. Dean hadn't internalized the lesson as well as his father had hoped; hospitals had their place and time, especially when your kid brother was bleeding all over your lap, but this wasn't it. That was one thing Dean was sure of now.

Restraints undone, Sam didn't move. Dean tried hard not to be disappointed, certainly didn't let any of what he felt slide into his voice. "Okay, bro, we're gonna take a little ride. You ready?"

Monitors, unsurprisingly, didn't go off when they'd been unplugged. Dean tore the leads off Sam's chest and temples, was gentler with the IV he removed with professional ease. He applied pressure, then a band-aid, and bent the limb in over Sam's stomach. There was no flinch at the needle's slide.

Sam felt unconscious, all uncoordinated dead weight as Dean lifted him, balancing the lean body against him as he swung Sam's legs down. They wouldn't bear his weight, either, but Dean didn't need them to. With a grunt and a quick swing, he relocated Sam to the wheelchair.

The dark head sagged. Dean swallowed, hating this more than he could have expressed but hands gentle as they eased Sam's head back. "Everything's going to be okay, Sam," he soothed, because he couldn't have borne any other possibility right now. "Just stay with me a little longer."

He draped Sam's jacket around his shoulder, eased socks onto his feet, and tightened his grip around one lax hand briefly before pulling away again.

The other patient he'd found was two doors down in the right direction, away from the elevators. Dean made sure the hallway was empty, then slipped out to the room. He deliberately avoided looking at the blank, drooling face and constricted limbs, offering a silent apology as he pulled a pair of leads off the man's chest. He could hear the beeping start at the nurses station, and moved quickly back to Sam's room.

The soft squish of rubber soles announced his favorite nurse had arrived to investigate. Dean gave her a few seconds to pass, then peered out again. The hallway was empty, the beeping continuing.

"Okay, Sammy, time to go." He returned to the wheelchair and started pushing.

The beeping stopped when he was almost at the elevator doors, and Dean held his breath as he pushed the button and waited. This was the weak spot of his plan, the unknowns of nurse and elevator response times. John would have been annoyed with the half-baked strategy and researching Dean had done, but then, John had never had to break one of his sons out of a friggin' funny farm, either. Dean dropped a hand over his brother's heart, reassuring himself of the strong beat, of something still being right. And then the elevator door slid open and they were home free.

Dean had checked entrances automatically when he'd come in, and he knew where he was going. He waited a few seconds for the front-desk clerk down the hall to look away from the open and apparently empty elevator, before wheeling Sam out of the corner and down the opposite direction.

Five minutes later, he had his brother settled into the front seat of the Impala and was roaring away.

"We're doing the right thing," he argued softly, over the quiet spill of music Dean hadn't the heart to turn off. "I know you like the establishment and all, but they weren't going to do anything for you except _drive_ you crazy. Trust me on this, man."

_I do. _Sam had, even when the pain kept getting worse the day before and Dean kept offering empty reassurances. Because the Winchesters _never_ retreated into denial.

They also never broke their promises. Dean would make this okay. He would.

"I'm listening now, Sammy," Dean whispered, glad for once that Sam's long hair hid his eyes, because the lump in Dean's throat would have choked him if he'd seen that empty look again just now. "Talk to me, man, okay?"

And Sam, in typical little brother fashion, ignored him.

Dean blinked hard and kept driving.

At the motel, in front of the door Sam had numbly walked out of while Dean slept, Dean parked, then dragged a hand over his face. He was tired, his mind muddy and slow between the shards of grief and panic. Sam had been exhausted, too, fighting something he could only vaguely sense—_pressure, like I'm underwater—_but his eyes remained open, small glints of reflected light visible between the dark brown strands. Dean couldn't resist the motion he knew his brother would make if he were _there, _raking the hair out of his eyes so he could, well, _not _see.

And again, something tiny and aware flashed in Sam's otherwise barren eyes.

Dean stared at him, brow furrowed, suddenly wondering how much power hope had. Because Sam was somehow reacting to _him_ when he didn't to anything else, and was that just wishful thinking or some esoteric instinct that couldn't be dampened? Come to think of it, Dean's touch the day before seemed to have helped steady him, too. Fought off…whatever. Reached him?

Dean leaned closer, deliberately splayed his hand against Sam's chest, feeling the solid thump of his heart. "Sam? Sammy." Coaxing, encouraging, loving. "You're in there, aren't you?"

A definite stir that time, like something restrained but still alive and responding.

And Dean could breathe again.

He realized what he had to do now, part hunter's instinct, part big brother intuition.

"I'll be right back and then we'll fix this, okay?" He wrapped his fingers around Sam's lax ones, brushing bare skin, and while there was no visible reaction this time, he could feel his brother's tentative presence underneath. Dean pulled the jacket a little tighter around Sam, then climbed out.

He didn't need much from the trunk—he wasn't even sure what would help but anything remotely possible was worth trying—but gathered a few things into a bag. Then he kept going around, to the passenger side. Sam sat in motionless silence, hands folded limply in his lap, head propped against the window, gaze unseeing. Still captive. Dean opened the door carefully, making sure Sam didn't topple out, then pulled one loose arm over his shoulder. If the guy had walked along the road by himself, maybe he could make it into the room on his own two feet.

It was a little like maneuvering a stiff-legged action figure, all uncoordination and locked joints, but Dean wasn't complaining. He kept up the praise and encouragement, not knowing what Sam could hear. Might as well prep for the main event.

Sam went on Dean's bed this time, falling heavily. Dean folded the long limbs into a more comfortable position, then crouched beside the bed.

Sam stared blankly back at him, and a shiver involuntarily worked its way down Dean's spine. If he was wrong, if he couldn't reach Sam…

"Dude," Dean said gently. "Don't drool on my pillow."

He stayed there a moment longer, playing back a hundred memories, then swallowed and pushed himself to his feet. Just a few more minutes; he could stand the silence and the aloneness for a few more minutes. God, he hoped Sam could, too.

Still, Dean talked his way through putting up the wards. "This one's from the Renaissance. They say the Pope blessed it, but I don't know, I think the dude who sold it to me was just trying to jack up the price. But figure it can't hurt, right? And this one's Jesuit, supposed to be against 'demons in the night.' So either we're protected from nightmares or hookers. Got some sage and southwood here, too. We need to get some more valerian next time we hit Montana…"

He could just imagine Sam rolling his eyes at the litany; Dean knew the tools of his trade and the contents of his trunk and how best to use both, but Sam would know the history and root of power behind all of it. Dean playing the professor would have been funny if he actually thought he was teaching Sam something instead of just filling the silence, or if he thought Sam could hear him.

Not yet. Just…not yet.

Wards up, Dean added a few symbols drawn in oil or water as appropriate, then salted the doorways for good measure. It probably wouldn't keep out whatever had driven Sam inward in the first place, but it was always the first line of defense.

Scratch that. Dean was the first line of defense. And he was not happy at something having slipped past him.

All right, he surveyed his handiwork. Besides really annoying the maid, he'd done everything he could to the room to help Sam, both to give him a hand in ridding him of this…influence or whatever was affecting him, and in those first vulnerable moments of release, keep it away.

Now, it was time to get personal.

Dean kicked his boots off and climbed onto the bed with Sam, a lifetime of memories of sharing cribs, then beds, tents, car seats, and patches of ground, pushing to the forefront. Most kids pined for their own rooms; Dean had mourned when he'd finally gotten one. Personal space wasn't an asset to someone who was used to protecting even in his sleep, who had so little to hold on to that sharing his space was blessing and reassurance, not imposition. Sam had known, hadn't resented Dean for his begging Sam to stay, and there had been no anger between them when he'd left. But loss, grief, fear? Dean still felt it sometimes in the dead of night, until the soft breathing from the other bed filled the hole the warm body next to him once had.

He listened to it for a moment now, watching the slow rise and fall of Sam's chest. As long as Dean had that, everything else was fixable.

"Okay, bro. Your turn to listen to me." And then he settled on his side facing Sam, only a little awkwardly pulling him close.

From tiny infant to several times that length, Sam had always fit against him. His face settled comfortably into the crux of Dean's neck, chin scraping collarbone, nose mashed against bare skin. Which was exactly the point. Dean dragged him even closer, knees knocking, hand pressed lightly against Sam's spine. His shoulder was brushing the healing burn on Dean's own, but he didn't care. His mouth was right by Sam's ear if Dean bent low, and he did, quietly starting to talk about the first thing that came to mind. If Sam didn't want to hear about how to clear a clogged fuel line, he'd just have to say so.

Touch, smell, hearing, sight, if a close-up view of Dean's jugular counted. If he could have added taste to the mix, he would have, but even Dean had his limits. Four senses would have to do. If Sam responded to a touch of a hand, to _Dean's _hand, then maybe the whole Dean Winchester Immersion Experience would be enough of a rope thrown for him to climb out with. Dean smirked, imagining what they looked like twined together like that. The embarrassment alone was probably enough to knock through a few of those walls.

He'd never been able to say no to Sam. Sam had more strength than Dean did in that respect, but he listened to his big brother most of the time, too. Dean was praying this was one of those times.

"Hey, man, we're having exactly the kind of chick scene you're always asking for here. You gonna show up and rub it in anytime soon?" He held his breath, resisting the urge to pull back and look again into those murky eyes. Dean wasn't sure he could bear not having someone looking back. "C'mon, Sam," he breathed as he concentrated instead on what he felt, both in the body he held and something less tangible.

Maybe…a tremor? Like curiosity, or weak struggle. Dean could have been imagining it, but it felt like Sam's fingers twitched against his side.

"Okay. Fine, you want to draw this out, make it a whole big thing, whatever. I don't have anywhere to be. But if I find out you're taking your time because you're enjoying making me squirm like this, you are so riding in the trunk to our next gig."

Sam seemed to sigh, breath gusting across Dean's skin. Dean knew the feeling. He buried the side of his face in the soft, tangled hair, and kept talking, this time moving on to a girl he'd met in Texas, and when that proved just too weird a topic given the circumstances, comparisons of different regional beers.

Sam's arm flexed, elbow briefly digging into Dean's side. Dean broke into a grin even as he winced. "Thattaboy. Come back, Sam. Kick this thing and get back here before I rent out your space."

Definite movement now. Still light stirrings, as if Sam were emerging from deep sleep, and Dean loosened his hold a little so he wasn't trapped, but was still close. Dean wasn't quitting now.

"Sam?" he asked again. "Sammy, you in the building yet?"

And, oh, God, it was the most wonderful way his name had ever been spoken, the cracked and faltering "Dean?" pressed out against his throat.

He couldn't help it, folding Sam a little tighter, nothing funny or awkward about the closeness now, just a lot of relief and a little desperation now that he could afford it. Now that Sam was back. Dean swallowed, his voice still husky when he answered. "Yeah, Sam. I'm right here."

"Yeah…I noticed." Still weak and very bewildered, but already there was a dry humor creeping into it. "Um, awkward?"

"It doesn't count if it's to keep you sane," Dean said pointedly.

Sam suddenly stiffened, heart speeding up. Memory had returned. "I couldn't get out," he gasped. "Dean, I tried, man, but I couldn't…couldn't get out." He pulled an arm free so he could hook it around Dean, gripping brutally enough to bruise his back.

"I know. It's okay now. Sam, you're safe, all right? It's over." Dean was relaxing in turn. Looking after a merely upset Sam, that he knew how to do. With a final steadying draw of breath, Dean let go and drew back, at least as far as Sam's grip would let him. He needed to see those eyes.

They were still washed out and confused and scared, but they were Sam. Dean's world righted, returning to its axis.

"I got you back, right? It's okay, Sam—we'll figure this out. It's not gonna happen again."

Sam's panic was already winding down. They were probably both too exhausted for long emotional outbursts. Thank God. Dean was relieved to see his brother smile despite the fear that lingered. "Right, 'cause you'll hug me until it goes away," Sam said wearily.

Dean snorted. "Pots and kettles mean anything to you, little brother?"

"_I _didn't know what I was doing."

Dean didn't let himself react to that one, the blank eyes a little too close a memory. "I don't see you climbing out of bed now," he just said mildly. "Say the word and I'll move."

Sam glanced down at them, at the hands he still had twisted in Dean's shirt. Dean could see his internal debate, wanting to let go and joke it off, but the memory of being locked away was probably still too pressing. Dean cheered him on, but felt no disappointment when Sam gave in to need, dropping his head back to the pillow and not letting go. "It's okay." He swallowed, shifted. "I'm okay."

"Yeah," Dean said firmly. "You are." And in another minute or so when that really sunk in and he started to believe it, he might actually let go of Sam and get at least a little of his dignity back.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, rolled his head away. "I don't know how to fight this, Dean," he whispered.

_Make it go away. _Dean wondered sometimes if Sam even knew he was doing it, going back to the patterns of their childhood. Twenty-two years old, almost a college graduate, taller than Dean, but the plea was still clear: _I'm scared. Fix it, Dean._

His response hadn't changed.

"We'll figure it out tomorrow, Sam, but it's going to be all right. Nothing's gonna happen to you." Not denial now, but a promise. "Get some sleep—I'll be here if whatever it is comes back."

Sam stared at him, eyes heavy. If Dean had run an emotional marathon that evening, he could just imagine how drained Sam was after playing hide-and-seek with his soul. "Dean…" It was a sigh.

"Yeah, Sam." He braced himself for whatever mush a drained, still-wobbly Sam might unleash.

"Dude, what would Cassie think?"

Dean groaned a laugh. That was way better than any Hallmark hearts-and-flowery thing Sam could have come up with. "Bite me." _Yeah, geek, love you, too._

"'S looks bad enough already." Sam was more asleep than awake, mouth running on automatic like Dean's usually did. Dean reached down for a blanket to pull over him, feeling Sam's grip tighten as it was stretched. Not quite asleep yet.

He snapped the blanket out and tucked it in. "Sam? After we beat this thing, we're gonna work on your sense of humor."

Sam's mouth twitched, but he was already gone.

Dean gave him a minute, then tried half-heartedly to back out of Sam's hold and retreat to the other bed. No go. Sam muttered something dark in his sleep, fingers winding so tightly in the fabric of Dean's shirt, his hand would probably ache the next day. Dean knew when he was beat, and settled back down to share, pulling part of Sam's blanket over himself. At least Sam wouldn't be taking walks or going _anywhere_ without Dean knowing it.

Even though he was worn out, it still took him a while of listening to Sam breathe before he fell asleep.

00000

"It was…bad."

Sam was the picture of defensiveness, pushed back against the headboard with his knees drawn to his chest. His hands were curled around the mug of hot tea Dean had pressed into them a few minutes before, but Sam fidgeted with and warmed himself on the heated porcelain as much as drank from it.

He'd slept the same dead sleep of the night before but without interruption this time, rousing only as the night started to settle in. Dean had managed to untangle himself somewhere around mid-afternoon to relieve his bladder and rinse some of the fuzz from his teeth, but the moment he'd returned to the bed, Sam had slung an arm over him again. Dean had rolled his eyes but hadn't fought it. Something about their being in contact was helping Sam fight off this…whatever it was, and if a serious decrease in personal space for a while was the cost of Sam not vanishing on him again, well, Dean had paid more for less. Besides, he was feeling oddly tolerant since seeing Sam in that psych ward the day before.

But Sam had pulled himself together upon waking, if still a little antsy when Dean got more than five feet from him. He was within arm's reach now as Dean sat at the other end of the bed, listening attentively.

"It was like…all this fear and despair and pain just started pounding on me. I don't know, I think it was some kind of psychic attack, someone trying to get inside my head. I tried to fight it but it was too much."

"You should've woken me up," Dean said, frowning. He was still trying to wrap his head around Sam wandering off while Dean slept one bed away, let alone that Sam had been attacked and he hadn't even known it.

"I tried." Those amber-green eyes were almost pleading. "Dean, man, I tried, but I couldn't even talk. It was like I was drowning or something."

Underwater again. Attacked, drowning: Dean was so not happy with this image. "So you tuned out," he said, trying to sound neutral because he wasn't mad at Sam.

"I guess." Sam's voice was low. His hands were white around the mug. "I'm not sure what I did, to be honest, I just…had to get away."

Dean took a deep breath. "Well, you got away all right. You went so deep, the doctors thought you'd had a breakdown or something. _I _almost couldn't get you out."

Sam's eyes slid back to him for a guilty second, then away again. "Sorry."

Dean's lips flattened and he pushed himself to his feet. "You've got nothin' to be sorry about, Sam—if anything, this was my fault for not listening to you before when you were trying to tell me what was going on."

"This wasn't your fault," Sam said earnestly.

"Yeah, well, it's not yours, either." Dean paced a few steps, felt Sam flinch as he got too far away, and came back again. He met his brother's eyes. "If we're looking for somebody to blame, I'm thinking our friendly neighborhood psychic has something to do with this."

Sam chewed on that a moment. "Yeah, maybe."

"What maybe?" Dean sat down on the bed again, bending one leg in front of him. "The headaches started when we hit town, right? A town where we're checking into a suspicious psychic? And you said it yourself, it felt like something was trying to get into your head. Wanna bet Mr. Cleo figured out what we we're here for and has been trying to get to you ever since? That's probably how he killed those people, too."

Sam unclasped one hand from the mug to rub his eyes. The gesture was purely a tired one, though, and considering he looked like the wrong end of a three-day hangover, Dean couldn't really blame him. The few brief psi attacks he'd experienced over the years with his decidedly un-sensitive brain gave him a bare inkling of what Sam had gone through. To be assaulted so violently that you were willing to risk being buried inside yourself, alone… Dean repressed a shudder.

"Sam?" he prodded gently when no answer was forthcoming.

Sam sighed. "Yeah." A small nod. "I think you're right." He gave Dean a small smile. "Next 'gift' that comes along, though, you can have it, all right?"

"You better believe it," Dean breathed. "So," louder, "we take this guy out, and—"

"Dean!"

Dean's jaw jutted, tired of this argument. "Sam, this dude almost got you _killed." _

"And I'm not letting him get to you, too. You're not killing him, Dean."

"Fine." Dean twisted his neck stiffly. "I'll just go lay some fear of Dean Winchester into him."

"Right. And if he decides to just fry both our minds the next time we sleep…"

"I'm not seeing a lot more options here, Sam!" Dean waved a hand.

Sam's mouth worked a minute, his eyes mostly elsewhere again. Never good signs. "I've got one," he ventured quietly.

Dean watched him with suspicion. "What?"

"I—"

His face suddenly contorted. As Dean stared at him in uncomprehending shock, the porcelain mug in his brother's hands cracked. "Sam, what the—?"

"Dean." His name was pressed out through clenched teeth. "Happening again." Sam dropped the mug and his wet hands fisted in his hair. "Oh, God…help…"

Dean unfroze and lurched forward, grabbing his brother's arms. He got it now, and it scared the daylights out of him, but he wasn't going to let Sam fight this one alone, too. "Hold on, Sam. I've got you. Just hold on."

Sam reached out blindly, grabbing first handfuls of Dean's shirt, then when that didn't seem to do it, shoving frantically at the sleeves. He had to twist in Dean's grasp to do it, but he pushed the layers up high enough that he could grasp Dean's forearms just above the wrists, skin on skin. Maybe Dean imagined it, but the tension around Sam's eyes seemed to give a little at the contact.

Dean got the picture. He let go of Sam's arms and clasped him on both sides of his neck, cradling the drooping head. Also skin-on-skin, and he felt Sam first shudder at the touch, then lean into it.

"C'mon," Dean coached softly. "Fight it, Sam. You can do this."

Sam was gulping, his pulse a frantic beat under Dean's fingertips. He was still exhausted and Dean didn't know if he had the strength for this, but he willed Sam to take from him and kept holding on.

"Sammy, stay with me. You can beat it."

Sam strained a few more seconds, neck cording with the effort. Then he suddenly gasped and went limp, falling face-first toward the mattress. Dean quickly adjusted his hold, hands moving to Sam's chest and arm, angling the slumped body toward him. Sam panted against his shoulder, trembling faintly.

Better than catatonia, anyway. "Sam?" Dean asked hesitantly.

"'M here." Breathless.

Dean rubbed his hand once up and down his brother's arm. "You all right?"

"Yeah."

"It was him again, wasn't it."

A weak nod.

Dean growled low in his throat. "Can I kill him now?"

Sam's laugh had no weight to it. "No…have an idea, just… 'm tired."

"Take a nap," Dean decided instantly. "I'll be here if he comes after you again, and worst comes to worst, I'll go over and beat him up for you." He said it lightly but he meant it. He was quite capable of sending someone to the hospital, or worse, with his bare hands if motivated enough, and repeated attacks against his little brother was more than enough motivation.

Sam huffed a laugh again. "Just like…fourth grade."

"Hey, those creeps were picking on a lot of kids—I did your whole class a favor."

"Like that's why you did it." Dean ignored the totally true comment and lent a hand instead as his brother pushed himself up. Dean kept pressing him gently back, though, until Sam was lying flat on the bed, not looking like he was quite sure how he'd gotten there. His forehead furrowed. "Dean—"

"Shut up and go to sleep, Sam."

Sam snorted. "So comforting."

"You want comforting? Shut up and go to sleep, _precious_."

Sam shuddered faintly. "Dude, coming from you, that's _scary_."

"Do I need to get the duct tape here, Sam?"

Sam opened red and tired eyes to look at him, suddenly serious again. "If it happens again—"

"It won't," Dean said firmly. "I've got a few more tricks up my sleeve, too, and you've got an idea, right? I'll be here while you sleep—nothing's gonna hurt you. And in the morning, we'll take care of this permanently."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay." His eyes closed again. "Thanks, Dean."

He waited until Sam's breathing evened out into sleep before responding with a "You're welcome," then standing. Those few tricks up his sleeve were actually out in the trunk, and Dean needed to go get the trinkets as soon as possible. He didn't want to leave Sam any longer than necessary.

Although Dean had an unhappy feeling that getting through the night would be the easy part.

00000

Sam watching him with a half-smile from a few inches away was the first thing Dean saw when he opened his eyes.

He breathed a curse as he lurched back, then pushed himself up, glancing at the clock. Just after eight. Not that late, then, and they'd both needed the sleep. He'd just kind of hoped to wake before Sam.

"You okay?" he checked.

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "No unwanted visitors this time."

"Good." Dean yawned, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's good."

"I think he has a harder time getting to me when you're here."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No kidding. What did you think yesterday was about, Sam, me feeling lonely?" He climbed out of the bed and lumbered into the bathroom. Dean cast a glance back at Sam as he went to make sure the distance was okay, but his brother had sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at nothing. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

"I have an idea," Sam's voice filtered through the door.

"You said that last night," Dean called back. "I hope it involves sharp, pointy objects, because I've got a few I'm just dyin' to use."

"Dean, I think I need to fight him the same way he's getting to me, mentally or psychically or whatever you want to call it."

Dean forgot about drying his hands as he yanked the door open and stared out in disbelief. "What? You've gotta be kidding me! No way, Sam."

"Dean—"

He advanced on his brother. "You just started getting these visions or whatever, you've got no control over them, and you want to face off against a guy who's using his mojo to kill people with his mind? No, Sam—that's crazy."

"Just listen to me a minute, okay? I know I'm still…new to all this, but I don't think I have to control it or attack him or anything. I just need to push back."

"Sam, the last time you went mind-to-mind with this guy, you ended up in the _psych ward_." Dean talked over Sam's flinch. "He's stronger than you, okay? Probably the smartest thing for you to do would be to get out of Dodge."

"We can't just walk away from this."

"I'm not talking about me, just you."

"I'm not leaving you to face him alone." Sam glared at him. "And anyway, there's no telling what the limits of his power are, Dean."

"Which brings us back to my favorite idea—planting this guy in the ground before he kills anybody else."

"We're not killing him."

"_He's_ a killer, Sam."

"But _you're_ not."

Dean faltered at that. Thinking of a few hunts Sam didn't know about, and many more he did and never blamed Dean for. Dean was less forgiving of himself, but Sam had always seen him differently.

"Dean," Sam said, suddenly soft. "I know I'm not up to this guy's speed—I'm not blind. But it's the only way, and I think I can do this…if I don't do it alone."

"Sam…"

Sam leaned forward to see into his face. He knew the power he had over Dean. "He can't fight both of us—we've seen that, right? Together we're stronger than he is. I just need you to do this with me, all right?"

Dean stared at him. Remembering lifeless, washed-out dun eyes. Seeing warm, pleading verdant ones.

"Please, Dean. I can't do this alone."

_Please, Dean, fix it._

He took a deep breath. "You're gonna make me do more of this touching crap, aren't you."

Sam's smile almost made the fear worthwhile.

00000

The first part of the plan was actually easy to get behind. Being ready for any battle meant mental and physical fortification. The solid night's sleep helped with the former, and Dean was all-too-ready for the latter in the form of a big meal at the nearest mom-and-pop diner. Sam went with him, his sleeve brushing Dean's more than usual. But besides the residual ache from the previous attacks, breakfast was psychic-free. Dean ate a day's worth of missed meals, watched with approval as Sam put away his own fair share, then nursed oversized cups of good coffee. The caffeine would help, too.

Sam still looked tired, but his eyes were clear and alert. Resolute. Dean looked for any sign of fatalism or self-sacrifice and saw none. Sam really thought they could beat this. Which made Dean think they could beat this. But it wouldn't make him lower his guard any, not until Sam made it through the showdown in one piece and drooling blankness-free. If he didn't…

Dean would fix him again. Simple as that.

Over dessert, they debated swinging by the psychic to see what or who exactly it was they were dealing with, and nixed the idea just as quickly. It probably wouldn't net them anything useful, and it might tip off the guy what they were planning if he didn't already know. Besides, sometimes it was easier to fight something if it didn't have a face. Sam hadn't even asked his name, and Dean hadn't offered. They returned to the room instead, and started preparing.

Sam finished his coffee and set his cup down, then straightened in the chair. Dean eyed him as he sat across from him, knees brushing. "You ready?" he asked.

Sam nodded, took a breath. "You?"

"To be your psychic Energizer bunny?" Dean snorted. The conversations they had… "Sure, why wouldn't I be?"

"We can do this, Dean," Sam said with certainty, even though Dean caught the flicker of fear in his eyes. Being sure—reasonably—they could win and knowing the toll it would take were two different things.

That was all Dean needed to switch sides, doubter to believer. "I know. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you when I'm here, remember?"

Sam's face softened, losing years. "'Cause big brother's always right."

"Well, yeah," he said in his best _duh! _voice.

Sam laughed. "Okay. Just…hold on, okay?" He took hold of Dean's wrists, and Dean could have sworn he felt a tingle of something. "Don't let go."

He turned his hands to clasp Sam's wrists in turn. "I'm not letting go."

Sam nodded, staring into his eyes a moment. Then he swallowed and closed his own eyes.

The old-fashioned analog clock by the beds ticked loudly in the silence. The pipes gurgled in the bathroom, creaking when someone next door turned on the shower. A car roared by on the nearby road, and Dean absently identified it as a Ferrari. This whole psychic back-up gig was turning out to be pretty boring, actually.

Sam winced, his fingers tightening their grip.

Dean's attention immediately returned to him, and he stared at Sam, wishing for the first time ever he could see what his brother saw. Wished not for the first time he could do this for Sam.

Sam started breathing faster, lips parting in a soundless gasp.

Dean frowned and opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Encouragement might just be distracting. But he _really_ hated this standing on the sidelines.

Sam groaned, his face contorted now. His silent mumble rose to just audible.

"No…you can't….won't let…God…Dean, you're…_I won't let you_."

Dean couldn't stay silent anymore. "Easy, boy. Let him come to you."

Sam's exhalations were ragged now, sweat shining on his face. His grip was bruising and shaky, and Dean cringed as blood started a slow drip from Sam's nose. Was he losing? Would Dean even know before it was too late?

Doubt wormed its way through him, but there was nothing he could do now. Letting go just meant leaving Sam to face what was in his head alone, and nothing Dean said seemed to be registering. But he kept trying, willing his voice steady, calming. "I've got you, Sam. We're stronger than he is. You can do this."

Sam gasped, a tear squeezing out. "Dean," he begged.

Dean's jaw clenched. He let go of Sam's wrists and slid his hands through the sweat-slicked grasp until their fingers were entwined, palms together. "We can do this, Sammy. I'm right here with you."

Sam writhed in his seat, the blood flowing thicker now. Dean's heart seized as his panic overflowed, and a whole new frantic flood of whathaveIdonewhatshouldIdo crested through his brain. He could almost feel Sam's desperate drawing on him, and Dean mashed their hands together until bones creaked from the strain. "Hold on, Sam," he ordered harshly.

"No," Sam wrenched out, face scrunching, then more loudly, "No!" Command or plea? Dean was in agony not knowing.

Sam's back suddenly arched and he screamed. He almost knocked the chair over, his grip threatening to break bone, and Dean momentarily felt light-headed.

"Sam!" He half rose out of his seat.

Make that, terrified.

And then it was over.

Sam deflated like a released balloon, tension and strength draining from him all at once. Dean had to shake his cramped hands loose to catch him before he slid off the chair completely. They ended up on the floor anyway, Dean underneath, Sam slumped on top of him.

Breathing; Dean could hear as much. Unsteady fingers confirmed a hammering pulse that was starting to slow. The only question now was…

"Sam?"

It took a few long, frightening seconds, but the limp body finally stirred. Sam twitched a few times, the back of the head bumping against Dean's chest as he tried to rouse.

"Sam? Tell me you're still there." Dean craned around to see his face but his eyes were closed. No clues there.

Another several beats. Then, "…Dean…tired." Sam's whisper slurred the second word into one syllable.

Dean grinned. Started breathing again. "No kidding." He pulled Sam closer to him, slid a hand under his knees. "Let's get you to bed, huh?"

"Mmm."

He heaved, managed to climb to his feet holding a hundred and eighty pounds of exhausted brother. His back wouldn't thank him later. The bed was only a few steps away, though, and Dean eased Sam onto his own. "Geez, Sam, sometimes I think that's all I'm good for, putting you to bed," he grumbled as he worked, one hand cradling the back of Sam's head, the other trying to work the covers free from under him without jarring him. "You don't need a brother, dude, you need a wife."

The bed cleared, Dean lay him down carefully, lifting one hanging arm onto the bed beside him. Sam had taken his shoes and belt off after the diner and would be comfortable enough in jeans and t-shirt for the night. As exhausted as he looked, he probably could have slept on nails, but Dean slid the pillow under his head, tucked him in. He went out to the bathroom for a wad of wet tissues and gently wiped the blood off Sam's lip and chin, making sure the hemorrhaging had stopped. Then he just stood over Sam, rubbing his throbbing shoulder, emotions still churning.

Dean assumed the battle had been won, although he'd have to wait until Sam was coherent to ask for details. But it had completely drained Sam, and from what Dean had seen, it had hurt. A high cost, no matter what the result. It wasn't fair Sam had been the one who had to pay it, alone.

Dean slid a hand under Sam's damp bangs, checking his temperature. Sam's mouth curled slightly in sleep, as if he recognized the touch, remembered it. Dean pulled his hand back, examining the skin that was still red and wrinkled from being crushed against Sam's. It would ache for a while in reminder. The animation disappeared from Sam's face, and he slid deeper into sleep.

Okay, maybe Sam hadn't been exactly alone.

Dean shook his head. "Sleep well, psychic wonder," he said fondly before he turned away, shaking his hands out. He grabbed his chair and the laptop and returned with both to the space between the beds. Another thoughtful look at Sam, and Dean sat, turned on the computer, and settled in to work.

00000

He knew his brother was awake long before Sam opened his eyes or tried looking around. Dean watched him in covert glances over the top of the paper, ready to give him whatever time Sam needed but also ready in case Sam needed _him_.

But after a few blinks, Sam just pushed himself up on wobbly arms and swung his feet off the bed. He hung there on its edge a minute, head in his hands, before pushing himself upright and weaving into the bathroom, ignoring Dean utterly on the way.

Dean snorted a laugh and returned to the paper.

The toilet flushed and the water in the sink ran for a long time before Sam came out again, looking a little more steady. He sank into the chair on the opposite side of the table from Dean and again propped his face in his hands.

Dean finally lowered the paper. "How you feeling?"

Sam took a few moments to answer, just enough to make Dean's eyes narrow. "Remember that Halloween party in high school?" he finally asked.

Dean's mouth twitched. "That good, huh?"

"Yeah, about." Sam scrubbed at his face and finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and tired but no longer anguished. Vast improvement, in Dean's humble opinion. "What day is it?"

"Tomorrow." Dean nudged the bottle of water by his elbow toward Sam. "Drink up before you get totally dehydrated, 'cause, dude, I am not hauling you around and putting you to bed again."

Sam colored faintly but took the bottle and emptied half of it before setting it down again.

Dean waited a little longer, but when nothing else seemed forthcoming, he sat up. "So, am I gonna get a play-by-play anytime soon? I kinda got the edited version at this end."

Sam took a breath, rubbed tiredly at his mouth. "Uh, there's not much to tell, actually. Like I guessed, it wasn't a fight so much as him pushing, trying to get…in me somehow, and me pushing back."

"Looked like it hurt," Dean offered gently.

Sam winced. "Yeah, well, try more like pushing with a bunch of psychic knives. But it was all right. You were kinda like a shield, so a lot of it didn't reach me."

"Shield, huh?" Dean smiled. He liked the sound of that. Story of his life. "One of those big golden Roman deals?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "How do you…?" His face suddenly cleared. "Don't tell me—you saw _Troy_."

Dean grimaced. "With Brad Pitt? Dude, I'm not you." He grinned. "_Gladiator. _Now _that_ was cool."

Sam groaned. "Whatever. What matters is, I think it worked."

"I think you're right." Dean picked another newspaper off the tabletop and turned it toward his brother.

Sam read a moment before blanching. "This him?" Dean nodded. Sam went even paler. "He's dead?"

Dean was watching him. "Yeah. Stroke, just like Sue Ann. Shame, huh? I was looking forward to meeting him."

"I killed him?"

"Yeah, Sam, you clogged his arteries with the power of your mind—no, doofus," Dean rolled his eyes, "the guy killed himself. He went after you and he got burned."

"Dean—"

"No, Sam, you're not doing this. This was totally the guy's fault. He goes around killing people to pimp his business or whatever, and he finally messed with somebody who could push back. No way is that your fault, and if you start this whole guilt-trip thing on me again, I'm kicking you out of the room. You can go whine to the car."

Sam blinked at him, then unexpectedly gave him a wan smile. "Watch out, Dean, you're threatening somebody who can take you out just by thinking."

"Well, I'm safe then." Dean jogged an eyebrow at him. "You're still my geeky kid brother, Sammy. That means I can always beat you up." The emphasis was on the first part of the line, though, because nothing Sam did or became would change that. He just hoped Sam got it, too.

He did, smiling a little more earnestly, and sappily, at Dean this time. "And I can't do it without you, anyway, Dean."

A lot of responses went through his mind, from the flip to the one that came from the deep place inside that was terrified of being alone. What came out was somewhere in between. "No reason you have to. Although if you don't shower soon, bro, I don't know, that car thing's starting to sound good."

Sam gave him a look that said he had Dean's number—_always did, little brother_—but he stood and headed again for the bathroom. Stopped at the doorway, just when Dean thought he was safe from any further chick moments. "Dean…it doesn't ever scare you, the things I can do?"

He was grateful Sam was behind him and didn't see his expression. "'Course it does. Anybody who can recite all the lyrics to 'Oops, I Did It Again' freaks me out, Sam, you know that."

Trust Sam to not go with the flow. "That's not what I—"

Dean turned to look at him, gaze steady now. "No, Sam, okay? It doesn't."

Sam stared at him a moment, then nodded. "All right." A beat, then, "Thanks." Without waiting for a response, he disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

"You're welcome."

Dean returned to the paper. Stared at it without seeing it. Finally whispered emphatically to himself.

"It _doesn't_."

**The End**


End file.
